The Yellow Suitcase
by Little Ithil
Summary: A girl finds a mysterious suitcase under her bed that holds the remnants of her past. Can an amber necklace, old letters and a tattered suitcase restore all she once knew? “I will always be there for you I will never truly leave your side.” OneShot


A/N- So this may not seem like it has anything to do with Harry Potter but it is based off of a dream I had about Sirius.  
Please Enjoy (and review!)  
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A yellow suitcase has appeared, almost magically, under my bed. I know he left it, for me, and yet I cannot make myself step up to it and snap those little bronze clasps open. Because if I do, it means he's not coming back. So I let it sit and watch me, staring creepily from under the dust ruffle.

When he left, I didn't cry. Even as I heard the back door quietly latch shut, I simply squeezed my eyes closed and swallowed. It had to happen and even now, I can't let myself break down. Everyone assumes it's because I don't think he's worth it anymore. They think he betrayed us. But I know differently. I can't cry because I know he would hate it. I know that if I cried, and if he saw, he would break down too, softly telling me everything would be okay, even if he knew it wasn't true.

Not crying keeps him strong.

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The yellow leather is smooth beneath my hands, and warm, oh so warm. It wants to be opened. Like Pandora's box, it is telling me it must be opened. My fingers are betraying me, sliding over the cold clasps, automatically unlocking them. All it would take to release everything is one sharp intake of breath and a quick snap.

So I do it, letting the first tear in seven years fall, allowing my emotions to finally escape. What's inside doesn't really matter anymore, because I know it's for me, from him.

Even as I lift the lid, I feel him there, guiding my hands across the soft cloth that covers the contents of this mystical box. On the lid, the satin is falling apart. Too many years of neglect have gotten to it, and I find myself reaching inside the tears.

I have to smile because I know him too well. He's hidden letters in the lining, carefully addressed. That was how he was: carefully foolish on the outside, and insanely sweet when you got to know him. All those things I had seen him writing, so secretive, so solemn, came spilling out. It isn't just sad, it is whole- heartedly him.

Within the letters, there are passages I will never forget. If he wasn't gone now, I might have smacked him over the head for being so sappy. Now, all I can do is cry. O the things he wrote!

"I will never forget that night in the rain, as our clothes soaked up the moisture, as it ran down our faces like tears. You may have actually cried; I will never know. But you had fallen and split open your knee and all I could think of was how beautiful you looked when you were soaking wet and laughing."

"Do you remember the way you used to press your forehead into the hollow of my neck and whisper into my shoulder, your lips tickling my collarbone? Or the way I would come up behind you and place my hands on your hips and you would shiver and twist to smile into my eyes? Or the way I used to twist your hair around my fingers and weave webs with it? You would always tug it away in the end and spend hours taking the knots out. Or so you always told me. "

"Even when we fought, which was all the time, I never stopped loving you. I never could stop thinking about how even when I thought I hated you, wanted to strangle you, I always kept coming back to the thought: if she doesn't love me after this, I may have to be committed to an asylum."

"I always wished I could take your breath away with some grand romantic gesture. I could never forget the way that you smiled and looked at Gary when we had broken up for the third time and the two of you had started going out. I can't even remember what he did for you but I remember Elise cooing over it and you just standing there with that look in your eyes, as though he had just fulfilled all your dreams. I always wanted you to have that star-struck look in your eyes with me. Now, I'm just happy when you smile."

"I have written letter upon letter to you, and I do not know where to send them! You peer over my shoulder and I swat you away, telling you some day, some day. Now I'm afraid that the fact that you're reading this means I am gone. Which means you are alone. And you are probably crying. Please, don't, I can't stand it when you do. I wish you would just smile. Isn't it what you always wanted? More emotion, more affection. You knew I always loved you, but you always wanted to see it. Now, as I finally show how much I love you in more than just a physical way, you have to go and cry. You always spoke how much you felt, or wrote it down. I always communicated it in a touch, or a soft gesture. I wish everything else about us had been so black and white."

I just wish he were here today.

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The few possessions I actually wish to take with me fit easily into the old suitcase. It isn't much more than the original contents of the bag. The letters, creased with use, still fit easily into the tears. Other secrets join them: pictures and memories.

I feel him coming up behind me, nervously pacing. He's come back after fourteen years away and the time apart is apparent. Gone is the seamless comfort we once felt with each other, the easy camaraderie. We've grown old too soon and things will never be the same. We're both still running from the past, still wary of the future.

The day he came back, I thought I was dreaming. Seeing him walk through that back door, stepping into the harsh light of the kitchen, was like seeing all of my dreams come to life. And now, now we're leaving. Leaving the little grey house on the corner where he first left. But this time, he is not alone.

I have forgiven him for leaving that night, and he has forgiven me for waiting for him to come back. The past will never disappear but we are moving on. We'll put it all behind us and try our best to make the future right. It won't be rainbows and sunshine, but we always had better fun in the moonlight anyway.

When I finish folding everything into the bag, and clasping it shut once more, he comes up behind me, finally ceasing his incessant movement. He turns me to face him and wordlessly touches the necklace I have on, running his thumb over the warm amber stone that beats a steady pulse against my skin. So long ago he gave it to me, telling me it was his way of a promise ring. I have never taken it off, never gave up on that promise, whispered in the light of an old street lamp.

"I will always be there for you; I will never truly leave your side."

As we step out the door, hand in hand, I cannot help but think of a picture he left me in the yellow leather suitcase: seven friends, standing on a platform, waiting for a train to come in. It was a grey day, typical rainy London weather, and they were laughing their heads off.

The weather did not matter; the sheer lack of money did not matter; the fact that they were leaving their home of seven years did not matter. They were together, they were strong and they were in love.

We were all we ever needed.


End file.
